The scam: the scene in Punch Drunk Love
where the heroine is bleeding and
Adam Sandler takes a tire iron to
the toughs that just wrecked his
car and his life.
What I find disturbing is the concept that
inevitably someone with issues like Sandler’s
must of necessity find true love. I am the age
of his character with neurological issues
of my own, and I haven’t seen its ananke.
A sweet film, but false advertising.
Will the comet shearing a rut through
the heart of the sky, so beautiful
and seeming benificent now on the horizon,
destroy us or is that law of physics
going to be suspended as well?
My life went up in smoke, but the vapors
concretized and reassembled themselves into
a castle of limestone which is where I live
now, with an empty heart that magically generates
enough fire to power cities, to the amusement of
blackbirds that flock in the willows.
Absently chewing a willow frond
I watch you draw cartoons as I
throw stones into the pond whose surface
is too algae-covered to skip pebbles off
The willow branches creak empty
in a contrary wind. A mosquito lands
on my notepad.
–by Tony Jones
Open to a fullness
that is seeking to be whole.
A world that is new
because you are so old.
cosmic dream scheme
I am in this
for real? Not just
And I am
not very often though.
The scent off a hunk of
you are alive and
pulled into this being
by the very breath that
powders the bones and powers
–by Tony Jones
Tony Jones is a 36 year old poet who has been writing seriously for 21 years, and has been published in journals like Virginia Writing and Kronos. He lives in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, and took a succession of dead-end jobs that were nonetheless very productive of creative inspiration, though generally in a negative way, before deciding to finish his Masters in Religion, which occupies him presently. He lives with a cat, Sibyl, and far too many books on history, philosophy, theology, science fiction and, well, you get the picture…
Copyright © Tony Jones, 2008. All Rights Reserved.